Finding Elrond
by shallowz
Summary: Sam has a leg wound that won’t heal, and Dean’s inspired by one of his usual resources for finding a cure. Edited December 13, 2009
1. Part 1

Title: Finding Elrond

Author: shallowz

Warnings/spoilers: Faith, Houses of the Holy, Born Under a Bad Sign (possibly others)

Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and premises of many talented people. Essentially, not ours, no profit being made, etc. This is just for fun.

Authors' Note: Happy Birthday, Harrigan ! This is for you.:) Many thanks to Erinrua for betaing!

-----

**Part One**

"This isn't getting better."

"Going back to the hospital's a waste of time. You know that." Sam met his brother's gaze and found reluctant acceptance.

"I must have missed something."

"Dean… "

"Yeah, been through this before." Dean picked up the ibuprofen bottle and shook out four tablets. "Take these."

Sam didn't argue. It hurt. Had been hurting for so long, he didn't remember what it was like before. A bottle of water was handed over next, and Sam drained it. Never could seem to get enough fluid these days. The fever kept burning, never seeming to rise, but never lowering either.

Sam watched as Dean bent over his leg, deft fingers smoothing a gauze pad over the weeks old gash. It was better not to see the red, inflamed mess with its blackened, torn edges. Sam had been wounded before on the job, but he'd never received an injury that refused to heal like this one did.

It was taking its toll. Sam knew he couldn't keep going like this. The fever burned. Took his appetite. Took his energy. He'd lost too much weight; could hardly keep his jeans up at this point.

Knew things were bad when Dean didn't tease him. No, hey, scarecrow. Which would have fit. He felt like one hanging out in a field, baking under the sun, fading away.

Gentle hands wrapped gauze around his thigh. Sam would never admit it, but he welcomed Dean's touch on his leg. Dean was quick and precise when it came to patching him up. Plenty of practice, his brother would say with a smirk, but Dean's hands were cool, and the wound was so hot.

And just maybe Dean knew, because as Sam closed his eyes he felt both hands covering the wound, and for that moment knew he could sleep because Dean made the burn go away.

-------

Dean watched Sam fall asleep. Pushed the panic down at how fast Sam could slip under. Happened more often now, and yet he never slipped into a true sleep. Not the much needed, healing kind of sleep.

Something supernatural made this wound, and even with all the cleansing Dean had done, something had been left behind. He'd been worried enough that he'd brought Sam to a hospital where they'd flushed the ragged laceration, patched him up, and handed out a prescription for antibiotics. Antibiotics that Sam had taken with diligence because he felt there was something different about this injury.

Two weeks later and no noticeable healing proved him right.

Four weeks later, it had become its own little horror story resulting in another hospital visit. Tests upon tests had left Sam so exhausted and washed out that Dean had thought his brother had died and someone had forgotten to tell him.

One look at the utter weariness in Sam's eyes told Dean more than the doctors could. They weren't going to find answers there, and Dean couldn't, wouldn't, put Sam through that again.

Alternative options were needed.

Dean couldn't help the soft huff of laughter as he booted up the laptop and googled 'natural healing'. He refused to put in 'faith'.

He looked over at Sam sprawled on the motel bed with his injured leg propped up on Dean's pillows. At first glance he might have looked comfortable, but that sprawl wasn't due to comfort. Sam just didn't have the energy to move.

Dean suspected that more than the injury hurt Sam to move. Sam hadn't said anything, but Dean had noticed in the last week that his brother's movements had become stiffer. Arthritic.

Dean knew Sam was dying.

Sam knew it too.

-------

Sam woke to the recognizable sounds of Dean packing up. The light in the room was dim, leaving Sam at a loss as to what time it was. The days he had lost track of a long time ago.

"Dean?" He swallowed to ease the dryness in his throat.

"Hey, Sammy. We're heading out. Hate to do it, but we've got some place to be."

"A job?" Sam frowned in confusion.

"Destination."

"Huh? Where?"

"Rivendell."

Sam blinked. "You say Rivendell?"

"Yep. Come on, Frodo. Let's find Elrond."

"Is this a hallucination?"

"Would it work better if it was?"

"Yeah, think so. You've gone all Lord of the Rings, and that's just weird, man."

"Hallucination it is."

Sam felt Dean's arm sliding under his shoulders, sitting him up. Without that arm, Sam knew he would have just continued to topple over onto the floor.

"God, if this is a hallucination, could it not hurt so damn much?"

"Hold on, I've got some good drugs for you."

"You hit a pharmacy?"

"Just a little one."

"Gimme."

He felt Dean's soft laughter and smiled. He hadn't heard it in awhile, and knew he was the cause of it. While he may be the injured one, it hadn't escaped Sam's attention that his brother was looking ragged around the edges.

Dean peeled open a packet. "Here. Open up."

Sam was grateful for the matter of fact way his brother 'nursed'. A pill was placed on his tongue and a bottle of water held to his mouth. Sam tried to lift his hand to take it, but found himself too weak and shaky. He swallowed the pill, and met his brother's worried eyes. Sam wanted Dean to stop worrying. Knew that wasn't going to happen.

"We'll take it easy, but I've gotta get you to the car before the happy meds kick in."

Sam nodded, detached. Dean picked up one of Sam's feet and started putting his shoes on. Tied the laces like he used to when Sam was little. It was so familiar that it took Sam a minute to realize that he was quite capable of putting on his own shoes, and had been doing so for years. Only right now he wasn't.

Strong, sure hands wrapped him in a blanket and pulled him to his now shod feet.

And for a moment that was too much. Sam was aware he was moving. Hoped he was moving. Otherwise, the room was and that wouldn't be the first time this week.

He heard the car door creak and wondered when they had reached the Impala. The lost fragments of time were worrisome.

"Come on, Sam. Stretch out in the back," Dean was saying, and Sam felt his brother's hand on his head making sure he didn't whack it on the car's roof. Sam couldn't breathe for those few seconds it took him to adjust to sitting. Without Dean's hand, warm and anchoring on the back of his neck, he knew he would've lost more time.

"Dean…" Sam knew his absolute weariness showed. He hated this. He hated that Dean had to take care of him like he was a toddler. Hated that there were lines in Dean's face that were only a month old.

"Hey, hey, we're going to fix this." Dean said with such absolute conviction, Sam couldn't help smiling at him.

"Yeah, I know. Not fair to you."

Dean broke out into a sudden, blinding smile. The genuine, rare one that lit him up.

"Sam, you're an idiot. This has nothing to do with fair." He pat Sam on the cheek. "You'll figure that out eventually. You're kind of a smart guy. Slow, but smart. Now, ease back in there. I've got your leg."

Sam glanced behind him and saw more _borrowed_ pillows added to the nest Dean continued to build in the back seat. "I didn't realize you had such birdlike tendencies."

"Yeah, well, it's not the first time," Dean said, following Sam's train of thought.

"What?"

"What, what?"

"What are you talking about? This not being the first time?"

Sam felt his brother's soft laughter as Dean adjusted him back against the pile of pillows stacked up against the car door. The huff of it tickled his ear. Became crowded with two six-foot something guys even with the Impala's generous back seat.

"Come on. I know there's a story." Sam put just a little wheedling in his tone. "Tell me."

"Gimme a minute." Dean tucked a pillow under his leg, and covered him up with a blanket. "You good?"

Sam blinked, surprised. The pillows supported his back just right, and his leg felt about as good as it could.

"Yeah, now tell me."

Sam wanted to hold unto the lightness of the moment. Wanted to hear Dean telling him a story in that easy, flowing tone he used when reminiscing about something that made him happy.

"Let me get us going first. We've got an appointment to make."

Dean closed the car door and hurried around to the driver's side. As he was getting in, Sam felt warmth spread through his body.

"Dude, what did you give me?"

"Only the best over-priced pharmaceuticals." Dean started the car.

"Seriously, you're too good to me."

"Remember that."

"So, you better tell me the story before this stuff puts me to sleep."

Dean pulled the car out of the motel lot and glanced over his shoulder. "This was one of Dad's favorite stories. Used to pull it out when I was complaining about a pain in the ass little brother. Always made him laugh."

Sam snorted and let his head fall back against the pillows. A sweet lethargy was taking over his body. His leg still ached something fierce, but he just didn't care. Dean's voice flowed over him, and Sam smiled because he knew that Dean had probably complained on purpose to get their dad to tell the story, and to make John laugh.

Remind their dad about the good times.

"Anyway, you know how pregnant moms do that nesting thing?" Dean looked back at him. Sam nodded. "Well, I guess I was doing the same thing, only in the back seat here…"

Sam drifted off while hearing Dean telling the tale of a four-year-old preparing a nest in a 1967 Impala to bring his baby brother home.


	2. Part 2

**Part Two**

It was 3:24 in the morning when Dean pulled the Impala onto the shoulder. He swallowed the last of the now cold Quickie Mart coffee he'd bought some hundred miles back, and tossed the empty cup over to the passenger side floor. His shoulders ached, he had a tension headache, and his eyes were so gritty he had washed them out at the last gas station. While it didn't seem to help his eyes, the chlorinated scent of the water remained, keeping his sense of smell busy.

Being overtired always made his sense of smell acute. Made all his senses a little intense. Fingertips rubbing his eyelids, he grimaced, and would have killed for a long, hot shower.

He was way past tired and moving into stupid.

Twisting his neck from side to side, Dean looked down at the map spread out on the seat beside him. Flipping on the small maglite, he found the last two X's he had made on the map to mark where he had been and where he expected to be now.

And couldn't focus even a little bit.

With a growl, he leaned over to the glove compartment to dig out the magnifying glass and held it over the map.

A soft snicker came from the back seat. "Hey, grandpa."

Sam would wake up now.

"Don't make fun of the guy who just drank the last of his coffee with no more in sight for the next 50 miles."

"We there yet?"

Dean hung his head. Pain meds always did make Sam more of a smart ass.

"Got another four hours."

"What time is it?"

"About 3:30."

"Think I could have some more of those stolen goods?"

Dean shot a look over the seat, flashing the light low so it wouldn't hit his brother in the eyes.

"Yeah, hold on." Dean scrabbled across the front seat to locate the pill bottle. It was a little early, but Sam's expression was enough to convey that waiting wasn't an option.

Twisting around, Dean held the pill out. "Open up, little birdie."

Sam rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Dean uncapped a bottle of water and held it to Sam's mouth. After Sam took a couple of swallows, his hand came up to grip Dean's wrist.

"Dude, shaking. What's up?"

"Just wired. Got the Big Cuppa at the last stop." Dean recapped the bottle and turned back around. "Strong stuff. It'd even grow hair on your chest, Sammy."

"My chest is manly enough. Your jealousy is showing. Careful." Sam's head sunk back into the pillows.

"Jealous-?" Dean's indignation stopped after hearing another soft snicker, realized where the conversation was heading, and wanted to slam his forehead on the steering wheel.

Straight into stupid.

A faint snore sounded from the back seat.

Dean made note of where he was and where he wanted to be; unaware he was smiling when he eased the car back out onto the highway.

-------

At the end of the Winchesters' destination, Elliot Walsh waited with no small amount of trepidation and cautious curiosity. He knew he wasn't ready for another client, but there was something about the caller's voice that had him saying, "yes, I'll take look," instead of hanging up like any reasonable person would after the fallout from his last case.

The front yard was still a mess.

Since that phone conversation, he'd called himself all kinds of an idiot. He lived alone. This could be more trouble, and he'd invited it upon himself.

But there had been that something in the caller's voice.

He'd known that people could and wouldn't react well when things went wrong. His many and varied teachers from around the world had told him that. It didn't matter the culture; people were the same. There were always a few that could twist and turn anything into something ugly and wrong.

But he had hoped once he had settled into his quiet corner of the world that he could avoid seeing that again. And for the most part, he had.

The last month had brought up his old doubts and fears about the choices he had made. He accepted that he was intuitive, had a good dose of common sense, and had a touch of something that brought people to his door. He was also old enough to know that sometimes it wasn't enough.

But he had said yes, and had been vacillating between hopeful and irritable since he had hung up the phone.

Once again, he stopped himself from ruminating and picking at the loose threads on the fraying cuffs of his sweater. Good or bad decision, he was getting company soon, and if the rumbling sound of a car was any indication, his company had just arrived.

Shoving all negative and troubling thoughts aside, he moved out to his singed front porch for a first glimpse of his visitors. Reminding himself to keep an open mind, he concentrated on why he had said yes in the first place.

The well-kept classic idled up the rough driveway in a manner that suggested care for the car as well as the passengers within. It was the type of car that either made you nervous or drool with envy.

The vehicle eased to stop in front of the house, and Elliot could make out the driver as he turned to look towards the back seat where another figure reclined. The driver's arm went back to touch the other before climbing out of the car.

Initial impression of the short haired, leather jacket-wearing man? Driver fit the car.

"Elliot Walsh?"

"Yeah." He thought he had done an admirable job of hiding his resignation until he saw the man's eyes narrow.

"I called earlier, name's Dean Winchester, my brother Sam's in the back."

Interested in spite of himself, Elliot moved to the passenger side of the car. Opening the back door, he peered inside.

Sam was tall, taller than his brother, and drugged to his eyeballs. Elliot glanced at Dean, then back again at the brother.

"Gave him some Vicodin to take the edge off." Dean said.

"Looks like it worked." Elliot looked at the long, lax body wondering just how to get the young man into his house. The leg looked bad. Bare from the thigh down, a soiled bandage peeked out from beneath the cut-off, worn sweats that had been sacrificed for the ease of caring for the wound. "How do you want to do this?"

"If you'll take his legs, I'll get behind him and ease him out."

Elliot gave a nod as Dean moved to the back door. At Elliot's touch, Sam's eyes shot open, his arms shifting into a defensive position. Elliot made a mental note of the reaction, and stayed well out of range of those long limbs while he waited for the wounded man to orient himself.

"Wha-?"

Dean opened the door Sam was resting against and used his body to keep Sam and the pillows from spilling out.

"Well, hey, Sleeping Beauty, just hang on. We're getting you out of here."

Sam's head swiveled around to look at Dean.

"And go where?"

Elliot's mouth twitched upon hearing Sam's suspicious tone. Dean just started removing pillows and tossing them into the front seat.

"Where you're gonna get fixed up."

"Not an answer."

"Later."

"Now."

"Come on, Sam."

"Dean."

A muttered curse.

"This is Elliot Walsh. He's known as a healer."

Dead silence.

"Sam?"

"A healer." Not a question.

"Sam, meet Mr. Elliot Walsh. Mr. Walsh, meet Sam."

"Call me Elliot since I'm about to feel you up here." He wondered at the eyebrow raise Sam was giving him.

"Elliot Walsh, the healer." Sam did a rather unexpected thing. He laughed.

"Yeah, the irony is a bitch." Dean agreed.

Ain't it just?

-------

Dean had a moment of weirdness meeting Walsh. The guy reminded him of the dude that had portrayed Boromir in the Lord of the Rings movies. Not the character himself. That really would've hit the freaky meter out of the park, but the actual guy… whose name he couldn't remember.

Walsh was a tall, lanky man with longish blond hair, green eyes, and a generous smile in rugged face. Walsh didn't look at all healerish in his battered sweater and jeans. He looked like a regular guy, no hands raised to the heavens invoking God, and that sold Dean enough that he was willing to take a chance on him.

Walsh's home seemed to fit the man. The drive was long and the house well away from the road, several miles from the nearest town, and trees hid the two and half story house from anyone driving by. The house itself looked like a candidate for a haunting given how old it must be. While well maintained, the house and its surroundings were isolated and indicated this wasn't a place for someone who was raising a family or valued social interaction. This was someone who valued his privacy and needed his space.

As far as Dean was concerned, Walsh might as well have thrown out the welcome mat.

Still, Dean didn't think that the scorch marks on the porch and the turned up yard were a sign that Walsh led a trouble free life. Not that Dean would let some vandalism stop him.

Besides… kinda out of options.

Sam was aware enough to get his good leg under him. With Dean on one side and Walsh on the other, they manhandled Sam up the few steps onto the porch. Sam's stifled gasp let Dean know that the meds were wearing off. Walsh, in a reassuring non-American accent, was running a smooth commentary about a comfortable bed large enough to fit Sam.

Much to Dean's relief, the treatment room, which looked more like a nice guest room, was located on the ground floor on the south side of the house. A large window overlooked the backyard and revealed that Walsh must love gardening. Dean appreciated the view. Sam would like it. Give him something better to look at than the usual whacked out motel wallpaper.

And it smelled clean. Didn't smell of hospital; didn't smell of hotel. Smelled more of home, and while that particular thought ached, it reaffirmed Dean's decision to bring Sam here.

"Sam, do you feel up to a shower?" Walsh was asking as they assisted Sam in sitting down on the bed. "The bathroom is through that door. The shower has a stool and a hand nozzle."

Dean saw his brother perk up at the mention of a shower. With Sam weakening, they had only managed awkward sponge baths.

Seeing Sam's indecision, Dean urged, "Come on, Sam, I'll help. It's not that weird."

Sam raised a brow.

"Yeah, okay, it is. We'll make it quick."

Dean started removing his brother's shoes, letting him know this was going to happen. Dean knew it was uncomfortable, but while they lived a life of nomads, that didn't mean they lived dirty. John had instilled the policy that you get yourself clean every chance you got and the same with their clothes. Their possessions were few, but they were well kept, and that had a lot to do with John's influence.

And it had been a couple of days since either of them had a shower. That was a couple of days too long. Walsh's nose hairs were probably curling.

"I'm gonna get our bags." Dean rose and pushed Sam's shoes out of the way with his foot. "Be right back."

-------

Sam watched his brother go, and Walsh came forward pulling up a small rolling stool to sit on.

"I'm going to take a look at this leg, all right?" He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.

Sam nodded and wondered when Walsh had picked up a scissor. Wished his mind would clear enough to track things.

"Jus' goin' to cut this off." Walsh gestured toward the soiled dressing. Sam nodded his consent.

"You all right with being here, Sam?"

"Yeah." Even feeling as rotten as he did, he still couldn't get over the humor of the situation. He was so going to be riding Dean over this one. Not all at once. This was an opportunity to be savored. "You all right with us being here?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"You've had trouble lately." At Walsh's look he elaborated. "Saw the yard and porch. Nice bit of vandalism."

"A touch. Thought you were too out of it to notice."

"I'm not dead." Who could miss the ripped up yard and fire scorched porch? "Think you can help?"

"Don't know until I have a look." Walsh slid the scissor under the bandage. "How long have you had this?"

Sam had to think about that. Think of today's date, which he only knew because he'd asked Dean, work it back and came up with…

"Going on seven weeks."

"Long time."

Forever.

-------

Dean pulled out their duffle bags, but left the weapons in the car except for the few he couldn't bear to be without. Figured he didn't need Sam's lecture regarding the discourtesy of bringing firearms into your host's house. He wasn't completely oblivious to the niceties of the civilized world. He just didn't always agree with them.

Better rude and prepared. That he could live with and often did. And he knew about Walsh's troubles. Knew what absolute nut jobs so called normal people could be when things didn't go as expected.

Turning back to Walsh's house, Dean felt the world wobble, and he reached out to steady himself on the Impala's trunk. Too much all night driving, coffee, junk food, and too little sleep had left him feeling shaky and disconnected.

"Come on." He slung the bags over his shoulder and walked to the house.

Sammy needed a bath.

Never ask if life could get weirder. It always did.


	3. Part 3

**Part Three**

Sam couldn't help wrinkling his nose at the wound. It smelled and looked worse. Damn ghost. Dean should have burned its bones twice.

Come to think of it, Dean had been zealous with the lighter fluid and salt. Tossed an entire book of matches with a 'take that, you son of a bitch', which was so Dean that Sam had laughed in spite of the ragged cut in his thigh.

Walsh was quiet. Took a moment for Sam to realize the healer hadn't said anything. If Sam was grossed out, and he was used to it, what would someone else think on first sight?

"Bloody hell, this is the ugliest damn thing I've ever seen."

Sam couldn't stop the crooked grin. The healer had an accent Sam couldn't put to one place, but to several, and there was an air of refinement about Walsh that made his cursing somewhat surprising.

"What made this?" Walsh leaned in closer to examine the injury.

"Not sure you would believe it." The reply came from Dean as he entered the room with their bags and placed them next to the dresser.

Sam blinked. That sounded like his brother was going for the truth. Whole truth and nothing but.

"Try me," Walsh said as he continued to study the wound.

"We were going after a spirit of a murderer who used a hand scythe to carve up anyone he thought was a Nazi. He wasn't a problem until some teenagers decided it would be fun to party out at the paupers' lot where he was buried. He had a thing against teenagers as well as Nazis, and it was enough to stir him up. He took out a couple of them. Authorities didn't believe them. Kids were doing a bit of weed, drinking beer. Didn't lend a whole lot of credibility to their story."

"You believed it?" Walsh's voice remained neutral.

"Details were too good. Everything matched up. We dug up information about a guy back in the early 1940's name of Harold Jenkins who believed Nazis were after him. Jenkins went after a neighbor's sixteen-year-old son who had heard Jenkins screaming about the Third Reich. The kid had gone to see if everything was okay, only Jenkins had lost it and attacked him. The kid's father wasn't far behind, and seeing his son hurt pissed him off. Neighbor shot Harry and that was that." Dean clenched his jaw. "We went to do a salt and burn and the bastard came at us. Sam got his attention, and Jenkins cut his leg before we finished him off."

"So, a ghost did this?"

"A vengeful spirit did that."

"There's a difference?"

"We like to categorize the vengeful spirits that want to kill us from the ones who are just lost."

"So, vengeful spirit."

Sam watched the man take a moment to wrap his head around the idea and move on. Gave him points for doing so.

"What've you done so far?"

"Cleaned it with all the regular stuff, bandaged Sam up, and took him to the emergency room. It was too nasty to mess around with."

"Regular stuff?"

"Holy water, saline, peroxide." Crossing his arms, Dean leaned back against the dresser.

Sam zoned on his brother's voice while Dean went into a detailed explanation of the last seven weeks. Dean wouldn't forget anything, and Sam spent an unknown amount of time drifting in what was now his own familiar, hazy world.

Walsh's voice brought him back to awareness.

"Doesn't explain why it isn't healing." Walsh let his hand hover over the wound. "Do you want it to, Sam?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Dean moved away from the dresser.

"An important one. Sam?"

"Yeah." His eyebrows rose. "Take it your last client didn't?"

Walsh's jaw twitched, but Sam didn't have it in him to be sorry.

There was a big part of Sam that was still fuming. Meg using him to mess with Dean was only the latest, greatest thing to make him just want to wrap his hands around demon kinds' neck and twist. He wasn't sure if they meant to make him angry or just wear him down, but anger was winning out.

And no stranger was going to suggest otherwise.

"Get cleaned up," Walsh said, sidestepping the question. "Keep the wound covered while you shower, but remove the bandage when you're done and leave it open. I'll be back in a moment with something for it. Make yourself at home."

Sam sensed Dean's stare. It was the "Dad, Dean's staring at me," stare that use to rile him up as a kid. Still could. "Meant what I said."

"You've taken some hard hits lately."

"And you haven't?" He swung his head over to meet Dean's gaze. "A healer?!"

"I checked him out."

"Man, you told him the truth, names and all. Why?"

"Didn't seem right not to."

"You know he's had trouble and you came anyway. Why?"

"Had a feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yeah, a feeling."

Choking back a laugh, Sam said, "Having some trouble believing you brought me to a healer because of a feeling."

He couldn't help the smile as he watched Dean shrug away his discomfort.

"Yeah, well, desperate measures and all that."

Sam remembered a white tent in a muddy Nebraska field. "Oh yeah, all that. Know the feeling."

"Shut up. Let's get you to that shower."

Grinning, Sam held his arm out to be pulled to his feet. Dean, quite adept at getting Sam around at this point, maneuvered him to the bathroom and made quick work of stripping him down in spite of Sam using Dean as a crutch.

"Wow. You must have had a lot of practice with your dates." Sam was bemused at the efficiency in which he lost his clothing. Dean shuddered.

"Dude, don't even go there." He thrust a hand towel with a vague wave toward Sam's lower region. "Here, just cover…"

It was well worth a little loss of pride to sit on a small stool, and having hot water pouring over his clammy, grimy body. Dean stood behind him, wearing boxer briefs and a t-shirt, manning the shower nozzle with a competency that shouldn't surprise Sam, but still managed to.

Dean hooked the nozzle in place and proceeded to wash Sam's hair. Nirvana.

"You should get a job shampooing." Sam received a soft whap across the top of his head.

A memory came back so sharp and clear it startled Sam. He must have been around five. When they stayed at the motels, Dean had taken to bringing Sam into the shower with him. It was efficient for Dean and fun for Sam. John would help with towels and clothes, but often it was Dean who washed his hair.

Sam remembered one time when Dean had sat down on the bed corralling Sam between his legs to comb out his wet hair. It had felt like a game. Sam had giggled and wiggled to get away as his big brother had locked his legs around Sam's waist. Laughing, Dean had struggled to remain on the bed and keep Sam in place.

Most of all, Sam remembered their father laughing, so genuine and unrestrained.

Having just finished his shower, John stood in the bathroom doorway toweling his hair. He was laughing low and deep. A sound so rare that the brothers had hammed it up until all three were breathless.

Later that night, John had scooped them up to sit on each a side of him to read a story. Sam had fallen asleep to the deep, comforting rumble of their father's voice.

He missed his dad, and Sam was too tired and ill to shove that back down like he normally could.

"Sam?" Dean's soapy hand rested on his shoulder. "Getting too much for you?"

"Just a little. Feels good though." Wasn't so tired he couldn't keep his thoughts from Dean. Someday they might be able to talk about it, but not now.

"Shut your eyes. I'm going to rinse your hair."

Sam snickered. The weirdness of the situation was comical. No wonder he flashed back to that memory.

He felt all of five again.

-------

Assisting his brother out of the shower, Dean wrapped Sam in a towel, and helped him sit down on the closed toilet before quickly finishing his own shower. Throwing a towel around his waist, Dean gathered up his clothes, dressed, and proceeded to do the same for Sam.

Sam kept his mouth shut on just how efficient his brother was at that too.

Dean helped Sam back to the large, comfy bed in Walsh's guest room. It smelled good; he smelled good. Sam burrowed into the fresh, softness of the bedding. With his body aching the way it was, it felt like a slice of heaven. The painkillers were wearing off and this wasn't a half bad place to be while they did.

Dean placed a dry towel under his injured leg and removed the bandage. Once finished he was all but tucking him in. Sam snorted, and Dean backed off, aware of what he was doing.

Before Sam could take advantage of the golden opportunity to mock his brother, Walsh returned carrying a tray containing a pitcher of water, glasses, and something that looked like a pile of wet gauze.

"You're in need of this," he said, placing it on the nightstand. He filled a glass, held it out for Sam to drink, and stepped away as Dean came in from the other side to help.

Sam drank long and deep before realizing that there was a faint tang to it. He frowned down at the drink and turned to the 'healer'.

"Just some electrolytes to replenish what you're burning up." Walsh refilled his glass. "You're in serious need of them. If I didn't understand your situation, I'd ship you off to the hospital."

"Can you do some of that Elrond mojo and help him?"

Walsh grinned at Dean. "Caught the Lord of the Rings marathon the other night?" His smile softened. "I honestly don't know yet. I'll do my best."

Settling down on the stool, Walsh placed the wet gauze over the injury. "This bandage is soaked with Comfrey. It's good for inflammation, and we'll keep it on for about 15 minutes. In the meantime, I'm going to lay my hands over the wound. Some people feel something. Some don't. There's no right or wrong way for you to feel here. I just want you to relax and drink. Do you need something for the pain?"

Feeling himself fading, Sam nodded, not at all interested in waking up in few hours with his leg on fire. Far as he was concerned, showing a stiff upper lip in the face of pain was idiotic. Not if you had something to take care of it, and since Dean so nicely did a little B&E for him, the least Sam could do was take advantage of it.

He took the offered tablets; Dean's hand hovering just under the glass. Sam let it drop knowing his brother would catch it before falling back on the softest pillows he could ever remember.

-------

"It'll be okay, Sam." Dean placed the glass on the nightstand. Sam blinked once, and was gone.

Elliot watched as Sam fell asleep. Saw the resignation that Sam couldn't hide before he did.

"He usually drop off that fast?" Elliot took a seat at the edge of the bed near Sam's leg.

"More and more lately." Dean's tone was dry as sand and just as gritty. Rubbing his hands over his face, he slumped into the chair.

"Drink some of that." Elliot made it as close to an order as he dared. He needed Dean to rest as much as he needed his brother to.

"Got anything stronger?" Elliot could see there was an innate cockiness to this brother that wanted to come through, but Dean was too exhausted to pull it off.

Walsh grinned. "Later."

"Deal."

Walsh placed his hands over Sam's wound and concentrated. Move the energy in. He was aware that Dean did drink a full glass. Blockage. Go deeper… blockage… picture a zipper opening… come on, let me in… huh… gross… that's it…

Dean's eyes started closing.

More blockage… Come on, let it in.

Let yourself fall asleep, man.

That's it…

Head falling back against the chair, Dean's body relaxed into sleep. Walsh smiled and closed his own eyes to concentrate. One brother down.

Time to do a little Elrond mojo.

Colorful, these Winchesters.


	4. Part 4

**Part Four**

Dean woke to find he had slept most of the day and it was now twilight. Walsh was gone. Sam was still asleep, head turned away from him, shaggy hair matted. That would be fun to comb out later.

Something smelled good, and Dean sniffed in appreciation. Figuring Sam would be out for awhile yet, Dean followed his nose to the kitchen and almost dropped to his knees in worship when he saw homemade caramel rolls being pulled out of the oven.

"You bake too?"

Looking over his shoulder, Walsh grinned. "When I need to think. There's coffee. Help yourself and get me a cup while you're at it."

"That I can do."

Pulling down a couple of cups located on the shelves above the coffeemaker, Dean filled them. Walsh had the rolls off their pan, piled on a dish and placed on the table by the time Dean came with the coffee.

"Help yourself." Walsh handed him a smaller plate. Dean needed no further urging. Knowing he was going to burn either his fingers or his mouth did not stop him from diving in.

Homemade caramel rolls.

And he was hungry. Hungry for something that wasn't fast food, or diner food, or bought from a convenience store.

Hungry for a lot of things in retrospect, but right now that caramel roll gave Dean a little something besides a full stomach...

-------

Elliot sipped his coffee and watched with a certain amount of amusement as his guest burned his tongue, but moaned in absolute delight as he chewed.

"Dude, if this healing gig of yours gets old, open a bakery." Dean licked caramel off his thumb.

Elliot laughed. "It was a consideration at one point in my life." Hazel eyes snapped over to look at him.

"What happened?"

"This happened. Sometimes our professions find us. I suspect you know something about that."

"Suppose I do, but I think you are underestimating what good caramel rolls could do for society." Dean took another bite. "Seriously, you could cure the world's ills with these."

Laughing again, Elliot took a bite and admitted that his efforts had turned out very well.

"Didn't take with Sam, did it?"

The blunt question startled Elliot, and he suspected that he should get used to them.

"I couldn't get in. Tried every trick I knew and could only do surface level work. Couldn't get deep down where it's needed." Grimacing, he remembered the dark oily feel of it.

"He doesn't have much time."

"No, he doesn't. Especially if I can't figure out what the blockage is. You have any insights on that?"

And he watched as Dean's face closed off, leaving a hollowed out expression. Elliot gave Dean credit. He didn't turn away from him, met his gaze, but Elliot bet he wouldn't get the answer he was looking for.

Dean proved him wrong.

For the next hour, in a soft even tone, Dean told him of John Winchester's death and the months that followed.

-------

Elliot sat in stunned silence. Dean stared down at his coffee cup.

That was all out there. Elliot wasn't sure if he was grateful or regretful to know the truth about things that went bump in the night. Rising, he went to the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of brandy, and poured them both a generous helping.

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Thought when you said something stronger, you meant the coffee."

"That was before you told me all this."

"Taking this pretty good if all you need is a pull of brandy." Dean smirked. "Or are you just humoring the crazy man?"

Sighing, Elliot slid back into his chair. "Do you know how often I've been accused of being stark ravers? Most folks find it easier to create their own rational for the unexplainable rather than accept a situation as divine or evil."

"Here, here." Dean raised his cup in salute. "Is that what happened to your front lawn?"

"The Landrys happened to my front lawn." Elliot shifted back into his chair. "It was one of those cases I knew I couldn't help. Marisa Landry was done with this life. Quite frankly, she was a woman who was done with her husband. Will Landry is one of the biggest pain in the arses this world has known, and the easiest, simplest way for her to leave him was to die."

"That's harsh."

"You don't know the man, but I'm sure you've met his ilk. Self-righteous to a fault. His is the only correct way, even when proved differently. Absolute surety in his faith in God, his own honor, and his morals."

"A crazy bastard."

Leaning forward, Elliot refilled his cup and Dean's. "That would cover it."

"How'd he end up at your doorstep?"

"Desperation is the only thing that comes to mind. For all his faults, he did love his wife in the way he could love anything." Elliot winced at a memory. "I tried, but nothing happened. She didn't want it. She might have said the right things, but she didn't want to be healed."

"That sucks."

"It does."

"They done with you?"

"Can only hope. There are two sons just as angry as their father. The local sheriff, Ron Davis, is a good friend to them, and a decent man. Out of respect for him, I didn't press charges, but did insist on a restraining order in the hopes it would deter them. I've my doubts."

"Suppose it's easy to blame you."

"It's a reaction I'm used to. Torching my porch, however, is not."

Dean shook his head. "Dealing with the supernatural is easier."

"I'll bow to your knowledge in that respect."

"Knowledge I have." The dry tone revealed that wealth of experience.

From across the table, Elliot studied Dean. He saw the brash, confident man that he was allowed to see. Looking deeper, he saw the brother who was worried, tired, and worn to the bone.

"I don't think Sam is a case of subconsciously letting himself go." Winchester's head came up and the hazel eyes were sharp and penetrating. Another facet revealed. "You never did believe that. Why?"

Dean snorted. "Sam doesn't do easy. That would be easy."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Just am."

Taking another swallow of coffee, Elliot smiled behind the cup's rim. In speaking of recent events in the Winchesters' lives, Dean revealed his hesitation in anything divine. Yet, he had an unwavering faith in Sam. Figuring it was best not to voice that observation, Elliot tucked that information away.

Having faith like that in another was a blessing all its own.

Glancing toward the hallway, Dean stood up. "You want the dishes in the sink?"

"That'd be fine. Thank you."

"Think I should be thanking you." Dean went to the sink and looked over his shoulder. "Appreciate what you're doing."

"I haven't done anything yet."

Dean gave a soft laugh. "Yeah, you have. I'm going to check on Sam."

And with that, Dean left Elliot musing over his ramped up coffee.

-------

Dean entered the bedroom as Sam was coming around.

"Hey, how you doin'?"

"Feel like crap," Sam's voice was hoarse. Dean poured some water, and his stomach clenched as he watched Sam struggle to sit up and fail.

"Hang on."

Sliding an arm under Sam's shoulders, Dean eased him up enough to drink. Sam was dead weight and bony to the touch. Knowing how it would affect his brother if the water spilled, Dean held the glass to Sam's mouth making certain not to tip too fast.

Falling back, Sam let out a frustrated groan.

Giving his brother's shoulder a comforting pat, Dean set the glass aside.

"Don't think your healer can do anything for me." Sam gave a hint of a smile.

"You just hold on. We're just getting started." He closed his eyes in fond remembrance. "And you haven't tried his caramel rolls yet. The guy's a baking genius."

"Dean-"

"No."

"What? You going to fight off the reaper for me?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Dude, you saying I can't?"

A startled look came to Sam's pale face, and he grinned. A full-fledged Sammy grin. "Sorry, don't know what I was thinking."

"You remember that. We'll work out the rest."

"Okay." He blinked. "Just so tired."

"Need a Vicodin?"

"Nah, good for now."

"Go ahead and sleep."

And Sam did. Having sensed Walsh's presence earlier, Dean looked to the doorway.

"He's not taking the pain meds, because he's slipping. Pain at least keeps him here." Walsh kept his eyes on Sam.

Seeing the hesitant expression on Walsh's face, Dean's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Whatever we need to do, it has to be tonight."

Dean clenched his jaw as his insides gave a twist. "You got something in mind?"

"After you left, it occurred to me that you said ghosts are repelled by salt. Salt is a natural purifier."

"We've used saline."

"I think we need to try it stronger."

Dean stared at the healer in disbelief. "You'd pour salt on an open wound like that?"

Walsh looked uneasy, but not like he was letting go of the idea. "Often times the simple solution is the answer. I've nothing else and this could work."

"If it doesn't kill him!" Dean hissed.

"Shock is a risk. A huge one." Walsh took a deep breath and let it out. "Dean, we're out of options. He's going to die if we do nothing. My usual bag of tricks isn't enough for him. I need to try something from yours."

Dean wanted to hate the guy. Wanted to argue. Wanted to call him a quack.

And didn't. Couldn't.

"Dean…"

Horrified, Dean looked down at his now awake brother.

"You do it."

"Sam-"

"Do it." The voice was weak, but the stubborn glare wasn't.

"Sonofabitch."

"Do it now."

Needing to turn away, Dean ended up looking at Walsh. The healer didn't appear any more excited about the salt plan than he did. Dean wouldn't have trusted him if he did.

A slap on his thigh brought his attention back to Sam.

"It'll be okay," Sam said before falling asleep.

"Way to inspire confidence." Dean turned back to Walsh. "We've got the Sammy seal of approval."

"I'll get what we need."

"Perfect."

Dean wondered if he was going to throw up.

-------

Studying the salt container in his hand, Elliot was well aware this was a desperate gamble. Sam was weak and that kind of pain could send him into shock... and if he let himself think about this too much, he was going to lose that knowing that had hit him when he thought of the salt in the first place. Like many times before when he would bake or just let his mind drift, the answer would come to him.

The saltshaker was the source of this particular knowing.

Pouring it in an open wound…

What was he thinking?

No. This was right. Felt right. Follow your instincts. Don't let reason dictate. Don't let the Landry incident shake your convictions.

However, he could commiserate with the very ill look that had come over Dean's face at Sam's 'do it' demand.

Elliot would hold onto the belief that the very stubborn resilient Winchesters could and would pull this off.

-------

Dean hoped that Sam would be out for this. Seems his little brother had a different idea about that.

Not surprising.

Sam was fighting sleep. Fighting it hard. He'd open his eyes wide, stare, try to hold it, and just drop off. A minute later he'd start the whole process over again.

"Dammit, Sam. Go to sleep. Not like you need to be awake for this."

"Yeah, I do."

"Never the easy way," Dean said, which earned him a faint smile.

Walsh entered with the salt container in hand. Swallowing hard, Dean slid the blanket away from Sam's leg.


	5. Part 5

**Part Five**

Sam knew if he slept now he wouldn't wake up. Felt himself wanting to give into that sweet, seductive darkness. No pain, no worries kind of darkness.

And that made him resist sleep all the more.

Knew too well that dead didn't always mean rest.

"Sam, you need to drink this," Walsh said. Dean held the glass to Sam's mouth and he choked down the sweetened beverage.

Things were moving quick now or appeared to be in Sam's fractured view. He had a vague awareness of the pillows being removed and heating pads placed beneath him. The pain of having his legs elevated cleared his mind.

Shock. They were afraid he would go into shock and were taking precautions.

Walsh was cutting off the bandage, and Sam gagged again at the fetid wound.

"Christ," Walsh voiced in unison with Dean's, "sonofabitch."

In this moment of clarity, Sam met his brother's pensive look as Dean accepted the salt from Walsh.

Dean's hands were shaking.

Okay, that was just wrong. Under all that determination, his brother was afraid, and Sam couldn't have that. He wanted this to stop, and he wanted to use this one clear instant to say what he needed to…

-------

A sound of a vehicle roaring up the drive diverted their attention. Elliot let out a string of curses.

Dean frowned. "Is that them?"

"Sounds like it. So much for that restraining order." Elliot turned to leave, but Dean blew past him with a-

"Gun?" Shocked, he looked to Sam. "Did he have a gun?"

How do you miss a man carrying a gun in your house?

Sam made a helpless, floppy gesture with his hand. "I can't get 'im to stop. It's like his security blanket."

"He has a GUN."

"Don't worry. He'll take care of 'em."

"That's my worry!"

-------

"He won't kill 'em. It'll help him relax." Sam felt his focus going, but would have loved to watch Dean deal with Landrys. They were just what Dean needed to vent some of his pent up worry and anger. Besides, Walsh was a decent guy. He didn't deserve this kind of treatment.

Dean would take care of it.

And enjoy it.

-------

Seeing that Sam had drifted off, Elliot had a moment of indecision before pivoting away from the bed to follow the guy who brought a gun into his home.

A gun.

Jogging down the hall, he saw the headlights flashing through the windows, and the engine grew louder as Dean opened the front door.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

-------

Standing in the open doorway, Dean took a moment to assess the situation. From what he could see, it was the Junior Landrys who had come for a visit in a four-wheel drive pickup to chew up more of Walsh's yard.

They were nice looking kids if it wasn't for the scowling, angry expressions they aimed at the house as they waited for Walsh to make an appearance.

Sorry, boys, not tonight.

-------

Sam's eyes opened and he spotted the salt. Himalayan salt? What happened to Morton's?

-------

Elliot opened his mouth intending to prevent whatever action Dean was about take, but Dean swept the gun up in a move so practiced and a part of him that Elliot froze.

Three shots, loud and violent, and Elliot flinched with each one.

Elliot heard the pings as bullets struck metal, and the Landrys disbelieving shouts - and it was them. He recognized the vehicle as it spun out of his yard and down the road.

Gun dropping down by his side, Dean watched them leave.

"Assholes." He shut the door, and tucked the gun away eyes on Elliot. "Hey, they won't be back tonight."

Flabbergasted, Elliot could only stare at his guest. This was the most relaxed he had seen Dean since they met.

-------

Sam's hand scrabbled across the bedding to grab up the salt. Okay, so Himalayan salt. Maybe frou-frou salt works better.

-------

"You brought a gun into my house." Elliot couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"And wasn't it good that I did." Dean shrugged. "Restraining orders are only good if the restrained party follows it. I'm not about to risk our lives to some out of control, grief-stricken Clampetts out to get you."

Elliot couldn't argue. He remembered the fear of having three men attack his home and wondered if he would die that night. He would address the utter relief… and glee of seeing the Landrys run off later.

His life had become a B-western.

-------

With determination his brother was all too familiar with, Sam pulled himself up into a sitting position. He thought he was going to be defeated by his inability to remove the salt cap, only to have it come loose and spill salt all over the bed.

Flat out annoyed, Sam scooped it up and held it over the wound.

-------

Dean was well aware that Walsh wasn't thrilled with him at the moment and didn't care. Sam had to come first.

Sam.

Dean sprinted for the bedroom. The polished wood floors caused him to slide into the door, but that didn't distract him from seeing his brother shaking the salt over his leg.

-------

Alarmed, Elliot followed close behind Dean and heard his annoyed shout. "This isn't popcorn, Sam!"

Elliot stumbled into the room in time to see Sam look at them bleary-eyed, while continuing to dump salt into the open wound.

"Nothin's happening." There was a petulant note to Sam's voice. "Maybe Himalayan salt is crap."

Elliot felt unreasonable laughter building up.

-------

Sam felt nothing. He saw the salt falling into the wound. The white salt contrasting with the blackness of the injury, and felt nothing. Nada.

Sam's forehead wrinkled in confusion. Dean blinked after a long moment, and they both looked down at Sam's leg.

"I expected..." Dean sat down on the edge of the bed

"More." Sam said.

"Yeah."

Walsh reached for the salt container. "It should at least sting."

Sam felt himself drifting again. "No sting." He started to feel a strange tingle. "Well, maybe…"

Wow.

Hurt.

A lot.

Sam's world splintered.

-------

Sam didn't scream. His mouth was open, his eyes wide, but he didn't scream. Dean wondered how much it had to hurt if you couldn't even let out a shout. Salt poured into a cut like that, he expected some yelling. A groan.

Something.

Took Dean far too long to realize the absolute silence was Sam not breathing, and that tumbled things down into stuff that was far worse than even Sam's look. He could have sworn he hadn't even gone near the thought 'how much worse could it get' when Sam went rigid right after his hand clamped around Dean's wrist.

Dark, oily wisps of vapor began to waft up from the wound.

-------

Walsh had never seen anything like the smokish looking stuff coming from the injury. He sensed the malevolence of it. His gaze was torn away when Sam arched off the bed. Dean shouted his brother's name and caught Sam by his free hand. Walsh reached across to pull Sam back and yelped at the unexpected cold that shot up his arm.

Oh, sweet mother of god, what was this?

He did snatch his hand away when Dean wrestled Sam's unyielding body back onto the bed, his right wrist still firmly caught within Sam's grip.

That had to hurt.

Their pain paled in comparison to what Sam was feeling if it knocked the breath right out of him. First things first, get the man breathing. Figure out the rest later.

Walsh heard the soft mantra of 'nononono' from Dean, and doubted he was even aware he was saying it.

Breathe, Sam. This would work better if you did.

Dean was as silent as his brother when Elliot reached over. He checked Sam's pulse and a wave of heat swept over him, leaving him stunned.

What now?

Sam sucked in a huge shuddering breath, Dean followed suit, and Elliot went to work.

Whatever supernatural entity remained in Sam was fighting to stay. Elliot struggled a bit against the unknown qualities of it, until he realized that fighting against a bad thing was the same as fighting against any other bad thing. It helped that Sam was working to expel the intruder.

It was parasitic in nature, which made it harder to separate it from Sam. Elliot shook from the sheer amount of exertion it was taking to stay with his client, and to not give into the primal human instinct of recoiling from the utter wrongness of this thing.

-------

Walsh had one of his hands on Sam's shoulder and the other hovering over the wound. The healer's hands were shaking, and even in concentration, he looked repulsed.

Feeling the ugliness of whatever this was, Dean couldn't blame him.

He reached out with his free hand to hold Walsh steady. Gunk wafting out of the wound could only be a good thing, and he wanted to make sure that Walsh and the salt got rid of it all.

Turning his head, Dean used his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and felt Sam loosening his vise-like grip on his wrist.

Walsh must have cranked up the heat.

-------

Elliot felt Dean grip his shoulder and the steadying pressure grounded him, allowed him to dig further down .

Underneath Elliot's hand, he felt Sam relax, and his breathing even out. Only then did Elliot permit the physical world to snap back into focus. He saw Dean peeling Sam's hand from his wrist, and giving it a light squeeze before resting it on Sam's stomach.

Sam was unconscious, but Elliot was pleased to find his pulse stronger, his color improved, his respirations even, and the general contentment of a healing, natural sleep. He was less surprised than he thought he would be to see the salt gone from the now more normal looking wound.

"So, did he come back to the light?"

Elliot grinned. "That he did."

"Nice work there, Elrond."

Elliot shook his head at the name.

Dean studied Sam for a moment. "That was different."

"More than a little."

"Huh?" Dean bemused and weary.

Recognizing that Dean would need some time to himself, Elliot jutted his chin toward the doorway. "Go get some sleep. Take my bed, I'll stay with Sam for a while."

And was surprised and touched when Dean agreed.

-------

Sam woke up feeling warm, very comfortable, and with an ache in his leg that was a far cry from the agony of before. This was normal.

And maybe it was a hallucination.

Outside the bedroom window, he spotted Dean planting flowers. He could swear they were flowers, but that was Dean.

Couldn't be. He must still be running a fever. Didn't feel like it. He really did feel better.

But Dean was planting flowers.

Sam fell back asleep.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Sam's progress continued at a pace through the week that pleased and astonished Elliot. While Sam slept with the determination of a man catching up for lost time, the wound had lost its putrid air, and the skin started knitting together in a pink, healthy fashion. Sam was a model patient.

And weaponry aside, Dean turned out to be handy about the house and yard. Elliot had soon discovered that an idle, bored Dean was not a good thing. While Sam recovered, Elliot recruited his restless, willing guest, and together they set about repairing the damage the Landrys had caused.

-------

Sam was on the fourth day of recovery, and under his healer's orders to remain in bed, when he heard a vehicle coming up the drive. Heard shouts. Not the happy kind. The angry, 'I'm going to get you' kind.

Where was Walsh?

Where was Dean?

He knew they had planned to work on repairing the front yard this afternoon.

Grabbing up his cell, he called Dean's. With his free hand, he started feeling between the mattress and box spring.

Oh yeah, there you are. He loved his brother's paranoia… or as Dean insisted, his tendency to believe that bad shit was always around the corner. Taking hold of his gun, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Come on, pick-

"I hear 'em," came the clipped greeting. "I'll handle it."

Snorting, Sam continued his search between the mattress and box spring. One gun? Not likely. His hand closed around the familiar grip of his knife. Poor Elliot was going to freak. Adrenalin gave him the push he needed to get out of bed.

A sigh. "There's a cane by the chair."

"Where are you?"

"Out back, by the garden shed. Walsh is getting us something to drink."

Sam shot a look over his shoulder when he heard the shouts get louder and the sound of the front door opening. "Dammit, he's going out."

"On my way. Use the cane."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's hunt some orcs." Sam grinned at the momentary silence.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not for a really long time."

Sam chuckled, just a little, imagining Dean's expression. Shoving the knife in his waistband with the hope that it just wouldn't drop down his leg, he took his gun in hand and snatched up the cane. He wasn't sure how long his leg would support him, and it just might come in handy.

As he passed his duffle, he saw the camcorder and grinned.

-------

Elliot stepped out onto the porch with no little amount of frustration. Big clods of dirt were being hurled into the air as the four by four ripped up the lawn.

He and Dean had just finished laying sod.

Elliot had found his equilibrium and no Landry was going to destroy the peace he had acquired since Sam's healing. Having gone up against a supernatural bully, the Landrys seemed… mundane.

And sad.

Looked like the entire family came to call this time. Will Landry looked stiff and grim in the passenger side, while one of the sons was cranking the steering wheel to dig more furrows in his yard -

Okay, he may sympathize, but a Molotov cocktail being lobbed from the back of the truck and heading for his repaired porch was pushing it. If he wasn't mistaken, that was Seth, the younger son, who tossed it.

Jesus, these people were nuts.

The bottle shattered as it was shot in mid-air to burn on the driveway followed by a satisfied whoop.

Dean was an excellent shot.

"He's going to love this." Elliot was startled to find Sam leaning on the doorjamb for support, camcorder in one hand, and a gun down by his side in the other. "I got that on film. We'll be watching that in slo-mo for days. How much you wanna bet?"

Shaking his head at the absurd turn his life had taken, Elliot waved to the Landrys as they aimed their truck toward the porch. Once he knew he had the Landrys' attention, he hooked a thumb over to indicate Sam.

"Smile for the camera boys!" And laughed as Dean shot out the passenger side mirror.

-------

Elliot picked up the ringing phone in his bedroom, frowning at the late hour. He didn't want it to wake Sam. While his client was much improved, Sam wasn't at full strength. The afternoon's excitement had taken a lot out of him. As it was, Sam hadn't gone back to bed. Instead he and Dean had parked themselves in front of the TV to watch and re-watch what Sam had caught on film. Not that Elliot wasn't guilty of more than a few viewings.

It was something to see the shots Dean made in slow motion.

Hearing the Winchesters' commentary was in itself a new form of entertainment, and Elliot found it fascinating to watch a different kind of healing take place.

"Elliot, who shot at the Landrys?" A no-nonsense voice barked over the receiver.

"Not sure what you're talking about, Ron." Elliot was somewhat surprised that the Landrys would admit to being at his place, much less go to the Sheriff.

"I've got a DVD here showing me that you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Oh." Elliot blinked. So, that's what Dean had been up to after dinner. "Some friends of mine."

"That's some dangerous friends you have there."

"I could say the same."

Silence.

"I'll take care of them."

"Please do."

"We'll call it even."

"Fair enough."

"Have a nice evening."

"You too, Sheriff." Elliot hung up the phone and turned to the shadowy figure in the hallway. "Thank you."

"Least I can do." Dean chuckled. "Besides, shots like those deserved to be shared."

Elliot threw back his head and laughed.

-------

Eight days after they had arrived, Sam stood on Elliot's porch and shooke his hand with sincere thanks for all he had done.

Taking his turn, Dean said, "You come across anything that needs our kind of attention, call us. We owe you."

"I'd say we're even." Elliot thought of the Landrys, and his renewed conviction in his work.

With a softening around the eyes, Dean shook his head. "Not even close." He slapped his brother on the shoulder and headed for the car. "Come on, Sam. We need to hit the road."

"He's right," Sam said about to follow when Elliot asked him to wait.

Elliot reached for a container sitting on the nearby table, and handed it to Sam. "Bribe him for good behavior with one of these when he starts to get on your nerves."

"Man, are these your caramel rolls?"

Grinning, Elliot gave a nod.

"This is the first time I've ever hoped he won't listen to me." Sam gave big toothy smile.

Then with a brief touch to Elliot's shoulder, he headed for the Impala, but not before hiding the container within the folds of the jacket he carried.

Elliot was pleased to note that while the limp was still there, Sam's gait was smoothing out.

-------

Once on the road, Sam glanced over to Dean.

"Nice job with the protection runes. Took me awhile to find 'em."

"Because, I'm just that good."

"He's covered, right?"

"With every single thing I could think of and what I could dig out of Dad's journal."

"Good."

-------

Settling on his front porch steps, Elliot surveyed his restored domain and reflected on the past week. Only a niggling little question marred his contentment.

Should he have said something?

Elliot never sat down with the Winchesters to explain how the healing worked. He would have, but there never seemed to be a good time. Sam was too ill to care, and Dean only cared that it worked.

Elliot's belief system was a grounded faith. He believed there was a higher power, whatever you wanted to call it. He trusted that belief was enough, and because of that he could heal, but it was never himself doing the healing. He was just the conductor. He could call on the energy that existed, and with intent, direct it to where it was needed. If the client wanted to be healed, it would happen.

Sam had doubted. Doubted it would work, and doubted that he was worthy of it.

Dean thought otherwise, and there lie Elliot's dilemma.

The energy Elliot had directed hadn't come from his usual channels. Sam had rejected that.

No, that raw, desperate power had come from an outside source. Unrestrained and familiar, it had blasted through any doubts Sam had.

Dean had been afraid of losing his brother. He was also determined enough to not let it happen, and whatever he had let loose, Sam had not only accepted, but held onto it with a stubbornness that matched Dean's.

As for explaining something like that to the Winchesters…

Someday, maybe. For now, he would remain their Elrond.

-------

"There's no way you can hide those rolls from me. You're still weak, and I can take you."

~The End~


End file.
